


Once

by oswhine



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a whouffaldi Beauty and the Beast AU basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago but I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it because I feel the characterization of Twelve is weak (I still do) but I like it so here it is.

The velvet curtains part, falling away from each other, their stained red colour a sharp contrast to the muted scene they reveal: a snow-wrapped forest, still, silent, and gray, the trees shadowing everything trapped beneath them, including a girl, arms wrapped protectively around herself, head down, the only movement in the perfect stillness. Her name, invisible but carved into every molecule of her being, is Clara. 

She steps into the footprints her father has made, hours ago. She recognizes his heavy tread, but there is really no need; no one else would venture into the dark forest on a snow-muffled night like this. His feet walked a lonely path, which she now follows. _I can’t lose him_ , she thinks, trying to let the thought drop there but her mind automatically supplying the _as well_. She won’t admit to herself he’s all she has, not yet. 

The snow is beginning to fall again, darting past tree branches crisscrossing the sky to land in the only thing she has to guide her. She begins to walk faster, desperation pulling at her. Her heart and her feet and her thoughts beat in time: _I have to find him, I have to find him, I have to find him_. She focuses on the present, not daring to think about a future without him. She can’t let her mind venture there; the future is a dangerous place - it makes one lose hope, and that’s all she has right now. Hope and a thin shawl that’s not enough to protect her from the snowflakes that are drifting down thicker and faster now, just as determined as she is. _I won’t give up_ , she adds to her rhythm. But it’s so cold and finding her father is seeming more and more impossible with every step as each mark grows fainter and fainter, and the snow lying on the ground really does look like a blanket, so thick and soft…

But then the light ahead of her suddenly changes and she looks up. The tangled forest is thinning, and there is something ahead. She moves faster, and her heartbeat and mantra increasing their pace to keep up: _Ihavetofindhim, Iwon’tgiveup, Ihavetofindhim_. She has stopped stepping exactly in the places her father has trod before and is just hurrying to find what is past the end of the trees. Then there she is, stepping over the forest’s threshold, her hand braced on the rough bark of a tree trunk, a gasp escaping her mouth as she sees what has appeared before her. It is a great castle, the woods nestled in at its every perimeter as if wanting to claim it, but not quite daring to. It is quite imposing, all moss-shaded stone and high towers that seem to touch the gray clouds above. This is where the last footprint is eaten by the snow, and this is where her father must be, seeking refuge inside its walls. 

She leaves the protection of the treeline and stands before the dark wooden doors. It does not feel very different from standing inside the palace of trees - the doors seem to be carved from the forest’s children. 

Suddenly she is frightened - this is a castle of dark mysteries and secrets, and what lies behind that door is all unknown shadows, shrouding her father in their depths. But the thrill of adventure and need for her father to hold her in his arms and reassure her raises her arm and she knocks, and with the first knock the door opens soundlessly, inviting her in. 

She enters a dark hall - she can only make out vague shadows of objects. Does anyone live here? Is it an abandoned castle, or a haunted one? What nightmares made its people flee from it? 

“Father?” She calls out, her voice stronger than she feels. There is the urge to step into the dark, to let it consume her and whisper its mysteries in her ear, like the sensation of standing at the edge of a cliff, so tempted to step off it into the unknown that one has to turn one’s back to it. 

“Clara!” The call is faint, coming from somewhere slightly ahead of her and to her right, and it fills her with relief. She rushes forward, hand stretched out in front of her, unable to make out his next distant sentence. All of a sudden her eager foot steps onto nothing, and she is tumbling, a little cry escaping from her lips as her limbs are battered, falling down the stairs. She doesn’t fall all the way to the bottom, but rests halfway down, trying to regain her breath. 

“Clara!” Her father calls again, louder now, worry in his voice. 

“I’m fine, Father!” She yells back, gingerly getting to her feet and brushing her skirt off. She can feel the dirt crumbling off it. Surely no one lives here. She carefully descends the rest of the stairs, her fingers running against the wall, feeling the cool stone’s landscape. At the bottom there is more light, light enough to make out where she is, a realisation which brings up more goosebumps than the snow outside did: she is in a dungeon, the bars on each cell wound with intricate steel vines bearing barbed wire thorns. They are cruelly beautiful. How did her father get trapped here?

She runs down the row of prisons, her footsteps echoing against the floor. Her father is in the last cell, as close to the bars as their severity will allow. The walls are made of damp black stone, and ivy has snuck in through the slit of a ground level window, nestled in the corner of the cell. It is just as cold as the winter landscape outside down here. 

“Clara, my girl, you must leave!” Her father says desperately, reaching out instinctively to grip the bars of his cage but curling his fingers back at the last moment. 

“Leave? But I came to find you, I was worried when you hadn’t returned. I knew you must have got lost, that’s so like you, especially in this opaque weather. How did you get in there, anyway?” 

Her father is about to answer, trembling, but before he can speak a powerful roar rattles all the bars lining the long room. “Oh no,” he says instead, in a voice so small Clara can barely hear it. 

“What is that? We have to get out of here, come on!” 

He just shakes his head helplessly. “How can I protect you when it’s you who’s coming to save me?” 

“Save you? But - “ 

“He’s coming,” her father says hurriedly, cutting her off, “Clara, please leave, if you love me, just leave!” 

“No! Not without you! What’s going on?” 

But before he can say anything, a shadow stretches down the hall, covering Clara’s face with its gloom. Slowly, full of dread, she looks up to see what sort of spectre could create such fear in the father she has always admired for being strong and brave. 

It is no creature of the imagination or insubstantiality, but a beast, facing her menacingly. It begins to step towards her, and she can see its tangled gray fur, the fangs that protrude from its mouth and hang over its lower lip, a constant reminder to the bloody terror it can cause. It looks to Clara like a wolf, but a wolf as described to someone who has never seen a wolf before, and is filled with fear at the thought of this unknown monster. But to her its eyes are the most surprising and frightening thing about it - they do not match the illustrations of any beast she’s ever seen, but in fact look more human; they are an intense, clear gray, like looking out a window on a torrentially rainy day. 

She takes a step back. She has nothing to protect her from those sharp teeth, those needle like claws that catch the gray light that shines weakly through the small cell windows, as if they are taking it all for themselves. She thinks it is going to kill her, or eat her, its claws slicing her into ribbons of a girl, its teeth sinking into her pale throat, drawing beads of blood, the finest present she has ever been given - a ruby necklace - for her last moments. But instead, it speaks:

“You know this impertinent man?” Its voice is as harsh as its roar, and its eyes narrow impenetrably. 

“Y-yes, he’s my father,” Clara stumbles, then tries to save herself from an impression of weakness by saying; “I’m not afraid of you.” But as soon as she says it she realises how out of place the declaration is, and how her voice trembles ever so slightly. 

“Is that right,” the Beast says, then, just as unfitting as her words, but purposefully so, he continues: “You will never see your father again.” 

“Why? You have no right to keep him locked up like this, he’s done nothing to you - “ 

“Nothing to me?” The Beast growls. “He stole into my castle like a thief, eating the food from my plates and taking his shoes off by my fire.” 

“Yes, because he was lost and hungry and cold!” 

“That gives no human a right to steal from a man. You humans are all selfish creatures, and I will make a selfish decision to mirror your kind: your father is my prisoner, for the rest of his days.” 

“No!” Clara says fiercely.

“I will not be reasoned with.” 

Her mind casts around for an escape, a bargain - “Take me.” 

Her father cries“Clara!” at the same time as the Beast says “What?” 

She takes a deep breath. “Take me instead. It’s more than a fair bargain, I’m many years younger than him. I’ll keep longer. Please. Just let him go.” 

“You were not the one who stole from me.” 

“This is more of a punishment to him than any imprisonment would be. A father, separated forever from his only daughter, his only child? Can you think of a more cruel fate than that?” 

The Beast considers her. “You’re more intelligent than most of you ignorant humans. I accept your bargain.” Abruptly, he swings out his paw, and Clara thinks he is about to knock her down before she realises, with shock, that he is offering it to her to shake. Cautiously, she reaches out her hand and grips her fingers around his. His hair is softer than she’d imagined from his coarse voice and manner. 

“No!” Her father shouts. “Keep me, this isn’t fair, she has her whole life ahead of her!” 

Clara turns to him, trying to keep the pain from showing in her face. “I’ve made my choice. Be safe. Remember that I love you, always.” She looks away. If she had held his gaze any longer the tears would have escaped from her eyes, running down her cheeks, washing away all the courage she has left in her. 

“Wait for me in the hall.” The Beast tells Clara gruffly. 

As she walks away from the two of them, she hears her father yell, “You can’t stay with this monster!”


	2. Chapter 2

There is the endless waiting in the hall which has somehow been illuminated since she rushed blindly through it half an hour ago, before everything changed, candle sconces set into the walls and glowing softly. There is a single high backed chair, and she sits in it for a while, her hands fidgeting in her lap, before she can stand it no longer and begins to pace the room to keep her thoughts away.

Her feet are still scuffing the floor when the Beast emerges at the top of the stairs to the dungeon. She rushes up to him immediately, asking, “Where is my father?” 

“Gone. I didn’t eat him, if that’s the assumption your mind has jumped to. This castle does not just have one door. Its secrets are mine.” 

She doesn’t know what to say to him, standing before him, thinking _now what_? 

There is hesitation in those unnerving gray eyes too. The Beast hurries to fill the silence: “You will have the second largest bedroom,” he grunts, avoiding her eyes. 

“What, would I dirty your cells?” She asks coldly. 

“Eternity is a long time,” he merely says. “Come.” He begins to walk toward the grand staircase, his movements completely silenced. It is only Clara’s footsteps that echo.

“I can find it myself,” she says, wanting to get away from this beast, to have some solitude where she can mourn her father and herself. 

“I don’t think you can. This castle is a labyrinth.” 

“Tell me where it is,” she says impatiently. 

He holds her gaze. “Stubborn, aren’t you? You won’t find it.” 

She glares at him, more frustrated than frightened now. “I suppose you think that because I’m a woman I have a terrible sense of direction?” 

“No, I know that everyone gets lost in this castle.” He pauses, as if he were about to add more words, but doesn’t. “Follow me.” 

She has to give in. He is just as stubborn as her, but with larger teeth. 

The grand staircase is carpeted thickly, a contrast to the hard stone floor in the hall. The Beast turns to the left at its head, then an abrupt right up a short spiral staircase. They twist and twine around the castle, where no corridor is longer than a meter and every room seems to be above or below its neighbour. Everywhere, candles flicker on the walls and Clara wonders how he lit them so quickly, or if there is a servant scurrying in secret ahead of them, trying to be invisible to her? Occasionally they pass a picture hung on the wall, but every one is hidden behind a curtain. She wants to reach out and twitch the fabric back on each of them and discover the brushstrokes underneath, and why they were so concealed. She would have thought that they were the least of the things the Beast has to hide. 

Finally the Beast stops before a door on the west side of the castle. 

“Could you have found that by yourself?” He asks mockingly. “If I had given you directions, could you have followed them?” 

She doesn’t reply, and pushes past him to pull open the door. 

The bedroom is large, large enough for shadows to trickle into every corner. It is like it is lying under a shroud; no candles have yet been lit in here, although an ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, waiting. There is an ocean of a four poster bed, and large windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling, showing a view of the tangled dark forest, its spindly branches reaching up to the sky. She notices it has stopped snowing. A large wardrobe sulks across from the bed, a story carved into its door. Clara can’t make it out from her position by the door, and she cranes her head and is about to move closer when the Beast growls:

“Satisfied?”

“I would not be satisfied by any prison that I have to spend the rest of my days in, no matter how luxurious. I would be more satisfied, however, if you would leave me in peace.” 

He looks at her for an unreadable moment before shutting the door behind him. And she is alone. 

To keep the sadness at bay she crosses to the wardrobe to examine it. As she looks closer, she sees the carving is of a great queen, sitting on her throne, sceptre in hand. Her wooden face is stern and serious. A vine, twisting round the back of her throne, trails away and leads to the next picture of the same woman, this time on horseback, a sword replacing the sceptre. The vine is trampled beneath the horse’s hooves and finally ends, curled into the queen’s hair as a crown inside the glass coffin she lies in. It is a sad tale, and Clara wonders who it belongs to. Who is this warrior queen? What connection does she have to the savage Beast?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> food porn because I'm on a crappy meal plan and have a lot of cravings for decent food

A few hours later, there is a knock on her door. She almost calls out, foolishly, ‘Who is it?’ but checks herself. Unless it is her imagined servant finally coming to reveal himself, there is no one else it could be. 

The Beast’s deep voice comes through the crack under the door: “Will you dine with me?” 

The thought makes her stomach churn. Dine with the creature who took away her happiness, her future, her family, so easily? Dine with him on animal heads and bloody livers? Impossible. 

“I’m not hungry!” She calls back. And it’s true. She’s too full of sadness to eat. 

A growl escapes him but he says no more and she assumes he’s walked away. 

She begins to search her room, opening drawers and cupboards. They are full of the most fascinating things: scented oils, silk handkerchiefs designed by foreign hands, fans embroidered with myths she is not familiar with, gloves made of fabrics she can not recognize by feel. Who did these objects belong to? Were they the possessions of the queen on the wardrobe? She finds a tinder box tucked in the back of the chest of drawers before she has approached the wardrobe, and finds herself slightly disappointed. But there will be an infinity of time she can unspool looking behind its storytelling doors. 

She lights all the candles, but that just makes the shadowers darker, like spilt ink, staining the room. 

She has been alone before; she likes solitariness, it is better to read in, easier to emerge herself in far off worlds. But never has she felt so lonely. The dark presses in on her, and the flames flicker on her face, teasing her. 

She doesn’t succumb to sleep for hours after she has snuffed the candles out, fearing of what the Beast may do when the shadows take her face into their obscurity, and when she does it is light and restless. She wakes up more tired than she was before she fell asleep. It is early - the light outside is still gray, but when she opens the door she finds the Beast (or his servant?) has already made breakfast for her, laid out on a tray on her doorstep. She takes it in quickly, as if she is a pirate hoarding her treasure, and lays it on the bed to admire. There is a mug of tea, still steaming and hot, a jug of cream, a pot of sugar, fried eggs laid on slices of toast like two neatly made beds. She cannot imagine the Beast’s large paws, his razor sharp claws, preparing this dainty meal. There must be some unseen person in the castle. As she eats, she makes it her mission to find this person. Perhaps they have enough compassion in them to help her return to her father. After all, they did make this careful breakfast. 

After she’s taken her last sip of tea she puts on yesterday’s dress, her only dress now, and leaves her room, setting the tray down where she found it, feeling like a trespasser sneaking through these corridors. But this is her home now. She nearly chokes on the word, how at odds it is to this place. Her home and her heart are with her father. 

She realises she can’t remember the way back to the main hall, but it doesn’t bother her at the moment. She can seize this chance and explore the castle, searching for hints of that mystery presence. 

Down the first corridor she turns she finds one of those covered paintings. Here, alone, she is unable to resist the urge to peek. Her fingers reach out, and, in one movement, she sweeps the fabric from the picture. She blinks at it. She’s not sure exactly what she had been expecting. Some ghastly nightmare picture that is unbearable to look at, maybe, or an illustration of the Beast’s sins. She is almost disappointed to see a simple portrait of a man with steel gray hair and a stern expression, but a faint twinkle in his eye, his hands hooked into the lapels of his jacket. She is looking at it, trying to figure it out, when a voice speaks from behind her: 

“My mother didn’t approve of portrait galleries. She scattered all these paintings throughout the castle and turned the old gallery into a music room.” It is the Beast. She jumps, startled, hiding the cloth that concealed the picture behind her back instinctively. 

“But why are all the paintings covered?” She asks, at the same time wondering about the Beast’s mother. It seems impossible that he was once a child with a mother’s gentle hand tucking him into bed each night, that he didn’t just hatch from an egg, like a basilisk. Was his mother like him? Or human, like the man in the picture? 

He ignores her question. “Do you want to see it?” He asks, referring to the music room. 

“No, I’m not musical,” she says, worrying that he will instead guide her to a torture chamber in the depths of the castle, a punishment for her curiousity. 

“Do you think I am?” He says, spreading his paws out. “It is still one of the most interesting rooms in the castle. There are more instruments in there than in the rest of the province combined.” 

She is tempted; the only instrument she has seen outside of the pages in a book is the lute the barman’s son plays in her hometown, badly, but as it is all they have everyone always gathers to listen. But she has never seen any torture devices that are not graphic illustrations either and she never wishes to see one of those. “No, thank you.” 

“No?” There is a hint of anger in his voice. _Oh god_ , she thinks, _will he force me to come? Will he drag me by my hair?_

“No.” Her heart flutters. _This is the last refusal he will allow, any second his claws will be tangled in my hair, my feet trying to gain purchase on the floor -_

But he just turns away and slips down another passageway in his silent manner. 

Was it a trick? A trap? Or something else?


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later she still has found no sign of the secretive third person in the castle. She has gotten lost no less than three times on the way back to her room, and on the way has seen parlours, plush bedrooms, a laboratory, a games room, but not the room she most dearly wanted to find: the library. Her feet are sore from traipsing around on the hard floors all day, and all she wants is to collapse onto her bed. But when she reaches it she finds something already lying there: a single pink rose, the same colour as her lips, but even softer than them. She strokes the velvety petals with her fingertip, wondering who left it for her to find. Who is this person? Why do they insist on being so furtive? The questions cloud her mind. 

Then there is a knock on the door. She runs to it, the rose still clasped in her hand, and flings it open, expecting to see its deliverer. But it is only the Beast, towering above her, radiating heat and an animalistic smell. 

“Will you dine with me tonight?” He asks, clearing his throat. 

“No, I’m too tired,” she says, thinking she will wait, just in case her secret admirer pays her a visit. 

His lips draw back in a snarl, but all he says is: “You’re bleeding.” 

He’s right; she has clutched the rose too tightly, and its thorns have pricked her, ribbons of blood trickling down her hand and winding around her wrist. She gauges the Beast’s reaction, looking for bloodlust in his eyes. 

He twitches a few times but then stalks away. A drop of blood falls from her hand onto the floor. 

~ 

When she opens her bedroom door the next morning, her breakfast is again waiting for her on its silver tray. It is different this time; crumpets with sweet, bloody jam. She eats every last crumb, drinks every last drop of tea, suffering from her missed meals. She reluctantly puts on her dress again, rumpled now, and sets off, determined to find either the library or the third person. 

She has not been roaming the corridors long when she hears voices coming from behind a half open door. Her heartbeat quickens. Finally she will meet this enigma, her lifeline. She creeps forward and hears the Beast’s voice: 

“She’s so frustrating. Does she think it’s ok to walk my halls as if she were the queen of this castle but not attend dinner with me? I should have kept her father, at least he had fear to force him to be polite. She seems able to swallow it like a pea.” 

Clara grows impatient. She tiptoes further until she can see into the room: the only person she can see in there is the Beast, pacing on the spot. It is a small room, with no places to hide. She can see he is only the one there, holding a conversation with himself.

“No, no,” he’s muttering to himself now, and she tries to slink away again but her shoes are not as muted as his fur-muffled paws and his monologue stops abruptly. Moments later he emerges from the room. 

“You’re not wearing that again, are you?” He asks, wrinkling his snout, “It’s starting to smell.” 

She picks up a corner of her skirt in her hand. “It’s all I have.” 

“With your relentless curiosity, I’m surprised you haven’t looked in the wardrobe in your room yet.” 

She remembers she hasn’t done that. But the castle has so much more to offer than a wardrobe. 

“Come,” he says, and she follows him obediently. She can’t disobey him all the time; there’s only so much his short beast’s patience will take, and soon, if she’s not careful, she will get her throat ripped out. 

“Here,” he says, crossing the room to open the wardrobe. He reveals a rainbow of gowns, in even more diverse fabrics, silk and satin, lace and organza, taffeta and velvet, even dresses with seed pearls sewn onto the neckline. The only texture missing is fur. They are old fashioned in design, but beautiful nonetheless. 

Clara’s breath catches in her throat. “Who did these belong to?” She cannot help asking.

“My mother,” he says shortly, pawing uselessly at the sumptuous fabrics. An unreadable look clouds his face and he slams the wardrobe door shut. “Anyway, they’re all yours now.” 

She waits until he has left for the realisation to fully seep into her. The noble queen carved into the doors of the wardrobe is the Beast’s mother. So she was human. How did he get to be this way? What happened to her? She wants so desperately to know. The tale the wardrobe tells leaves so much out. 

She turns to the wardrobe, running her finger along the vine that binds the three pictures together. A beginning, a middle, and an end. A rise and a fall. With a sigh, she opens the doors.

But she is overwhelmed. Gowns push against each other for space, each more extravagant than the next. She is unsure whether she is the right girl to wear any of them. She ends up choosing a simple blue dress, buttons marching up the front of it. Even then, she feels overdressed, trapped in these clothes meant for a woman much more important than she. 

Again that night, the Beast asks her to dinner, and again she says no, even as her stomach rumbles.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning her mysterious friend has left her a brioche and another rose, this time standing in a glass vase. She puts her other rose with it, and sets the vase on the table by the window. After that, breakfast is served with a rose every morning and the table becomes crowded with pink roses in varying stages of decay. 

She finds another simple dress to wear and resumes her search. She is disappointed she has found neither a man or a library yet, although she has guiltily peeked under every shielded painting she has come across. They are all portraits, but she hasn’t seen one of the Beast’s mother yet. Or of the Beast himself, though that is not surprising. 

She is walking in the east wing when she accidentally stumbles and falls to one knee. She is pushing herself to her feet when she realises she can feel a current of cool air. She looks around; there is no window in this passage, only a large cabinet beside her. She reaches out her fingers to feel the gap between its body and the wall. Sure enough, the breeze is coming from behind there. Excitement alights inside her and she pushes the side of the cabinet, revealing a steep flight of steps leading up into darkness. She doesn’t hesitate, and starts to climb. It’s a long way up; she must be in the tallest tower. She wonders if she will find the third person or something else altogether at the top. 

The circular room she reaches is empty save for a glass bell jar in the middle of the room. Inside it is a single pink rose, similar to the one in the glass vase this morning, but this one is different: it stands in the jar as if suspended by wires, and all its petals but three lie at its feet, black and dried up. What is the meaning of this strange showcase, and why was the entrance hidden? But there are no answers here. Regrettably, she retreats back down the stairs and replaces the cabinet, but although this blocks the draft it does not stem Clara’s questions and curiosity. 

~

The days begin to blur together. Everyday she wakes to find her breakfast waiting for her outside her room on a tray, and everyday she searches for the person who leaves it, but to no avail. They must be the ghost she first suspected the castle to be inhabited by. And every night, the Beast asks her to dine with him, and every night she refuses. And each day is framed by her loss. 

On morning, after she has dressed and devoured her breakfast, she finds the Beast outside, waiting for her. 

“What do you want?” 

“You spend every day just wandering the castle. Isn’t there anything you liked to do before you came here? Or did you just roam aimlessly round your tiny village cottage?” 

“If you’re trying to make me out as air-headed, I’m not,” she said, hands on her hips. “I did not spend all my time with my head in the clouds, I spent it reading.”

“And you haven’t found the library yet?” He seems almost amused. Every emotion for him is almost, restrained, subdued. 

“I - no, I didn’t know you had one.” 

He leads her down a passageway she hasn’t been down before, tucked behind a sideboard in one of the drawing rooms. It is long and curving and smaller than the rest, verging on claustrophobic, with no windows or tapestries or hidden portraits. At the end is a door, which the Beast enters. She follows after, a little nervous now. Is this the trap she’d suspected that time ago? Is she about to enter a bloodstained room full of threatening instruments? 

She is unable to breathe when she steps through the doorway. The ceiling towers feet above her, a cloudy sky exactly like the one outside painted onto it, and against the walls are shelves that stretched from the floor up, up into those clouds.

From that day on she gives up searching for the third person, and spends her days in the library, working through books, reading about the far off lands that she loves escaping to. 

She does not realise this is the adventure she’s sought for years, pressed in the pages of books.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He has a lot of bottled up anger from all those lonely years...
> 
> Also I'm sorry if you catch verb tense mistakes, it's difficult not to slip up when I'm writing in a tense I don't normally use.

The Beast calls through her door like he does every night: “Will you dine with me?”

“Not tonight,” she says, curled on the bed with a book she took from the library, biting her fingernails. 

“It’s never tonight,” he says, his voice rising, and suddenly he’s forced open the door and is standing in front of her, eyes wild, stance wide, claws shining in the candlelight. A growl rips from the back of his throat and she is more scared of him than she has been for a long time. She drops the book and kneels on the bed, backing away from him.

“Get up,” he says roughly.

She drops her feet to the floor and stands on the other side of the bed to him, every muscle in her body tensed. 

“I’m sick of your excuses,” he roars, “You will eat dinner with me or this pampered life you’ve been living will end!” 

She is breathing quickly. He darts round the bed, his claws reaching for her, his teeth bared and angry, snarling, eyes narrowed, but she dodges him and runs, out the door, down the corridor, the beating of her heart almost drowning out the roar that disturbs the air behind her. She runs, her fear pushing her, down the stairs, her body slamming against the front doors and they open and she rushes out in the cold night, snow falling thick and fast, and her without a cloak, just fear to keep her warm. Into the forest she darts, stumbling through the thick snow, its darkness nothing compared to what she’s leaving behind her. She doesn’t dare to look around as she pushes on, the dark swelling around as she gets further into the heart of the forest. Why hadn’t she thought of this before, just leaving? In a few hours, if the Beast doesn’t tear her heart from her chest, she could be home with her father before a warm fire. 

A howl echoes in the woods, seeming to surround her. The Beast. But then another howl joins in chorus with the first, and she realises it’s another type of beast: a wolf. 

A maddened Beast chasing her from one direction, winter-starved wolves from the other, and the snow falling more rapidly with each moment. _At least_ , she thinks, _I won’t die in that suffocating castle._

She tries to run more quickly now, but the snow is over her knees, tightly packed, and she is tiring with each step. That’s when the first wolf bursts out of the trees towards her, his face twisted, his scrawny body yearning for her. 

She screams and ducks, covering her face with her arms, even as she knows neither of these actions will do anything to protect her. But then she hears another sound, the wolf’s yelp, its body colliding with something. Guardedly, she brings her encasing arms down from her face. It is the Beast, pinning the wolf underneath him, but more of them are springing out from the dark shadow of the trees, hackles raised and teeth bared, leaping on him to try to protect their brother. Teeth tear away fur, and worse, flesh. The Beast tries to shake the wolves off, roaring, and drops of blood spot the snow. One flies off his back and hits a tree with a whimper. A few more just drop into the snow. But one remains, latched onto his arm, its teeth snuck in deep. Clara can’t help it; she cries out. There is nothing she can do. She is a tiny human girl and there are five desperate wolves. But she has to do something, she can’t bear just standing there. Her numb hands push through the crust of snow, scrabbling for a branch, a stone, something. Her finger grazes something rough and she seizes it. It’s just an ordinary damp rock, but it feels so much more powerful cradled in her hands. Even while she does this, the Beast is pulling at the wolf with his other arm, and the other wolves are ready to pounce. She throws the rock as hard as she can. It hits the wolf closest to her on the neck, in the center of its spine, and it crumples, shaking. Her hand trembles. How she can she feel for the creature in a moment like this? But they are just fighting for survival, for food. She knows hunger. She understands their frenzy. But she has to help the Beast. Without him, she doesn’t know how she will survive. She finds another stone, tosses it at the next wolf. It misses, denting the snow next to him, but it startles him so much that he scampers into the trees, tail between his legs. The last wolf turns to Clara, sensing she is more of a danger to it than the hulking monster before him. He starts toward her, growling. She steps backward to match his moves but she knows she is no match for him. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the Beast finally detaching the other wolf, hurling him into a snowbank. With the last of his strength, his paw swipes savagely at the wolf stalking towards Clara, its body shoved out of her path like a cloth toy. Silence filters back into the woods, the wolves bodies gathering falling snow as the Beast collapses to his knees. She rushes to him, using the paths he and the wolves have carved in the snow. She places her hand on his arm. His fur is moist and her hand comes away stained with red. 

“Let me help you,” she says and somehow, through some miracle, they make it back to the castle. 

She guides him into the main receiving room, where he collapses in front of the fire, thankfully already flickering cheerfully in the grate. She grabs the fire pail full of sand and lugs it outside, dumping its contents onto their front step and filling it instead with handfuls of snow. Back inside, she sets it in front of the fire beside the raggedly-breathing Beast and whisks the covering off one of the hidden portraits in the room, this one of a genial, gray-haired man. She soaks her cloth in the snow bucket and begins to tend to the Beast’s wounds. 

He moans as soon as she touches him. She takes her hand away and starts to wipe again. This time he edges away from her. 

“I need to clean these wounds,” she pleads. 

The next time she tries he manages to form words: “It hurts!” 

“Shh,” she scolds, “It’s a necessary evil.” 

She tenderly works at the gouges he has accumulated, like a mother attending to her son’s cut knee. The room slowly darkens, the fire dying until it is just glowing coals and the Beast winces one last time as Clara finishes cleaning his last sore. But now there is nothing to fill the silence, and they are trapped together after the mixed emotions of the day. 

“Well,” Clara finally says, “You must to go rest now.” She turns to leave, but he calls faintly at her back: 

“Wait.” 

“Do you need assistance to get to your room?” She asks over her shoulder, her hands shaking for no cause she can name. 

“No. Nevermind.” 

They both go to bed that night with a cloud of unspoken words over their heads.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day Clara doesn’t see the Beast all day, and he doesn’t come to her door to ask her to dinner either. So instead, she hunts for him, padding through the halls and up and down stairs until she reaches his room at the far side of the east wing. Now it is her knocking on his door, sealed away from him. 

“Come in,” he says in reply to her knock. 

She has never been in his room before. She had expected that his would be the largest bedroom, but it’s smaller than hers, or it least it appears that way from all the trinkets that crowd it: mobiles of shards of rainbow glass hang from the ceiling, scattering colourful fragments of light on the rug, alongside windchimes and a diorama of the solar system. A tapestry map of the world dominates one wall, a bookcase another. More books lay piled on the floor and his bedside table, and on his desk is a jar of feather pens, peacock and crow and even one that looks like a phoenix feather, next to an ornate jewelled inkwell, a metronome ticking away the seconds, and a carved music box. His thoughts have spilled out of his mind all over the room, paper everywhere; scraps sticking out of pages of books, tacked to his walls, scattered on the floor like petals, stuck to the window so the light shines through them, all scribbled madly on in a cramped, eager scrawl. Another shelf groans under the weight of various ornaments: seashells, glass eyes, dried flowers, golden scissors, a jewelled dagger, round reading glasses, strings of beads, and various pots and jars and even a lamp that looks like, if rubbed the right way, a genie might flow out of it into the oriental carpet. But there is one thing that is missing in all this clutter: there is not a single painting on the wall. 

The Beast is lying on his bed, watching her. She collects herself and comes to sit beside him, folding her hands in her lap. 

“Are you feeling better?” She asks. 

“Much.” 

“Good, because I wanted to ask you - will you dine with me?” 

He stiffens, gauging the expression on her face, and suddenly he bares all his teeth. Clara is about to back away when she realises it isn’t a warning, but a smile: a fanged grin. 

“I would love to.” 

“Good. I’ll meet you in the hall in half an hour; you better comb your fur in the meantime, the meal I’m inviting you to is formal.” 

Thirty minutes later she descends the grand staircase, holding her dress up to keep herself from stepping on its exquisite finery; it is the most magnificent dress in the carved wardrobe, looking like it's sewn from spun gold. In fact, Clara has a hard time believing it wasn’t made by Rumpelstiltskin himself. She is wearing her hair up for once, twisted around the ruby-studded pins she found in the dressing table in her room. She pinched her cheeks moments before she left her room so that they are the same colour as her collection of roses. She knows she looks good, but it is only now that she realises there are no mirrors in the castle in which to admire herself, so she’s had to make do with every window she passed, her figure shining gold like a candle against the black night outside. 

When she steps down onto the hall floor, producing a sharp _tap_ , the Beast notices too, turning around and barely managing to turn his gasp into a cough. He holds out his arm to her, and for once she doesn’t flinch away but takes it willingly, twining her arm around his, feeling the soft touch of his fur against her bare skin. 

Clara has already prepared a dinner, laid it out on silver dishes touched with candlelight. It was hard, trying to find her way in an unfamiliar kitchen, searching through all the cupboards, making a meal with what they had, but she managed, it, and she’s proud: there is a roast chicken and parsnips, leeks, and mushrooms. She hopes he will be satisfied, that this will be enough for his beast’s appetite. 

“Thank you, Clara,” he says, looking across at her. It is the first time he was spoken her name, and it rings out as if he’s been practicing it. Her name has new meaning coming from his mouth, being carved by his fangs. 

They sit across from each other and she finds herself blurting out: 

“Who was your mother?” She squirms a little, flushing as he looks up, but continues on: “I mean, I know the wardrobe tells a partial story, but I want to know more.” 

“You really want to know.” It isn’t a question; it’s a stated fact. “I’ll start it the way all good fairytales begin,” his voice is sarcastic, “Once upon a time, I was a prince and my parents were a king and a queen. Then my father died when I was very young and my mother had no other option but to take his leading place on the throne. The kingdom was an unhappy place; a war broke out and she had to lead her soldiers to battle - she thought it was her duty. She was a very compassionate woman, but an incredible fighter too. People say that she was the most enthusiastic warrior on the field that day, striking down two times as many men as the average soldier. But her exuberance got the better of her: she was killed. She died the same death as many other fighters in battle that day, but her funeral was very different. And everyone lived unhappily ever after.” 

“And it was all left to you?”

He nods. “But I was arrogant; too young to rule, although that isn’t an excuse. My mother had won the war but I let the kingdom fall to pieces.” He spreads his arms. 

She wants desperately to ask him how he had become like this, a solitary monster, but that she can’t manage, and she just chews her food quietly. 

Their stubbornness sits between them, neither wanting to thank each other for the previous day, the Beast, for rescuing her, and Clara, for coming back to him. 

After dinner, they take the dessert Clara has prepared, apple turnovers, plump and sprinkled with sugar, surprise gifts of raisins and currants wrapped inside them, and sit in front of the fire, their chairs beside each other, angled so that their eyes almost meet. 

“I want to show you something,” he says, his voice more gentle than she’s ever heard it before, so at odds with his threatening appearance. He stands, crosses the room, and pulls forward the picture of the gray-haired man, revealing a hidden compartment. Clara strains to see what’s inside it, even knowing that soon he will be showing it to her. He holds the object carefully in his paws, and she can’t make it out, just that it’s glinting in the firelight - he holds it out for her to see. It’s a mirror, a rare commodity in this place. It’s surface is tarnished, and its frame is set with rubies that are dull or fallen out of place, leaving empty bevels. But the Beast is holding it as if it is the most precious treasure in Aladdin’s cave. 

“It’s not just a mirror, is it?” Clara asks. Hidden away in a safe, in a castle with no other mirrors in it - of course it isn’t. 

He smiles that disarming grin again. “I knew you’d get it. Look into it and think of any sight - anything on Earth - and it will show it to you.” 

She grabs it eagerly, thinking of her father, and feels its heavy, monumental substance weigh down her hands. “Where did you get it?” She asks, running her fingers over the disheartened jewels.

“It’s been in my family as long as anyone can remember. It’s part of our history - our secret history.” 

“May I use it?” She clutches it to her chest, her heart thumping against it, wishing, hoping, he will go against his nature…

“Why else would I show it to you?” 

She holds it up in front of her face, and can’t help be distracted for a moment; her face is glowing in the firelight, more defined than in the transparent window. But her father is more important. She lets her heart fill with thoughts of him, the times when he used to take her out walking through the meadow behind their house, the fairy tales he told to her at night that had sparked her interest in stories, his loud laugh. The mirror shimmers, its surface rippling like water, faster and faster, until it is impossible to even see colours. And then it smooths, and she can see her father, in their kitchen at home, as if she is looking through the window. She feels tears suddenly spring to her eyes at just the sight of him. He is eating a solitary dinner, his only company a single candle. 

“Is this real?” She asks, looking up at the Beast. “Is this really what he’s doing at this very moment?” 

If he sees the tears in her eyes he pretends not to. “If that’s what it shows you.”

She lays her fingers on the glass, but as she does so, it begins to ripple again, and the image of her father is disturbed until she can only see the reflection of herself again. She grip tightens around the handle, her knuckles white. It wasn’t long enough, he’s gone already. 

“Can I look again?” She asks. 

“Wouldn’t you rather see the real thing?” 

“We both know that’s not possible. I’m your prisoner, locked in these rooms until my death.” 

“If it’s the rest of your life, one day won’t matter that much, will it?” 

She doesn’t dare understand what he’s saying, just in case it isn’t real. “What are you saying?” 

“Would you like to go _home_ ” - he nearly chokes on the word - “For a day?” 

“More than anything!” 

“Than I permit it. Just remember that your life is still mine, and return before the sun sets tomorrow. The way should be safe for you, those wolves are too incapacitated to be a danger to you. But I shall lend you a lantern.” He stands, already letting her go. “Oh, and the mirror, just in case.” 

_Just in case of what?_ she wonders. But it’s too late now, he’s already stalked upstairs. She dashes to her room, changes into more sensible clothes and her cloak, and is back downstairs before her chair grows cold. A lantern waits, glowing, on the table beside it and she speculates again about the third presence in the castle, but there isn’t time for that now, she is going to see her father! She grabs the mirror and the lantern and rushes out, but as the doors _thud_ closed behind her, she looks back. Just once. But the night is moving on, and she needs to too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Beast's room is inspired by Howl's in Howl's Moving Castle.


	8. Chapter 8

Her father nearly doesn’t believe it when he opens the door to find her on his doorstep, leaping up to throw her arms around his neck. And after it is real, it isn’t real enough, and he begs her to stay.

“We’ll go away, run forever,” he says, shaking her shoulders. 

“But father, we made a promise.” 

“An impossible promise! I should never have let you stay there, I should have fought him, like any good father protecting his daughter.” He closes his eyes. “Did he hurt you?” He places his hand on her cheek. 

“No, father, I’m fine, honest!”

“Why did he let you go?” 

She falters. “I - don’t know. He saw how much I missed you, I guess.” 

“A monster like him? He just wanted to hurt us, giving us one measly day to make up for the rest of our lives.” He shakes his head. 

“It’s more than we had before,” she reminds him. “And it’s not so bad - for once, I’m rich, surrounded by the most magnificent fineries a girl could wish for! I feel like a princess.” 

“But you’re also surrounded by a beast and his savage nature.” 

“He isn’t that savage, really. He eats with a knife and fork.” 

“Clara, why are you defending him? What has he done to you?” He seizes her wrist. 

“Nothing!” She pulls away, a little frightened. 

“You’re hysterical. Go up to your room, lie down for a while. I’ll bring you up some calming tea, alright?” 

She nods mutely. But in her old room her feelings are no more unknotted than they were downstairs. Why _is_ she defending the Beast? _Has_ he done something to change her? But no, she still feels like the same person, the same old Clara. But maybe she _is_ different, scared by her own father. And now that she’s home, why do all her thoughts stray to the Beast, alone in that large, empty castle? Hadn’t her thoughts always been occupied with home while she was there? Shouldn’t she be glad, to lie on her own bed, to look out her window at that old familiar view, the village laid out beneath her like children’s building blocks? Why is she so unsatisfied? 

She is about to look to the magic mirror for clues when her father knocks on her door with a steaming mug of tea, in her old favourite blue mug, just one of the pieces of mismatched china they own. 

“Drink it all up,” he says, “Rest a little longer. Maybe a nap would even do you good, hm?” 

She takes a sip, the hot tea biting her tongue, but feeling so good as it warms her stomach. “Oh, no, I couldn’t waste a single moment of time here. I’ll just finish this and then I’ll come down to you.” She smiles reassuringly at him, to tell him that she is his same daughter, even while doubting inside that she is. 

He just nods, a strange look on his face.

But she is feeling a little sleepy...maybe she’ll just rest for a moment. It has been a long night, after all. 

~

When she wakes, the night is over and morning light is streaming in pennants through her window. Has she really slept that long? 

She pounds down the stairs to find her father, his hands planted on the kitchen table, looking almost defeated. 

“How long did I sleep? You should have woken me!” 

He grants her a small smile. “I couldn’t have done that. You looked so peaceful.” 

“But father, we have so little time!” 

“Maybe we have more than you think. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” 

“No, but why would you say that? You know as well as I do that I have to return to the Beast’s castle before nightfall. Have you procured a horse, to make my journey back swifter?” 

“Something like that.” He frowns at the scratched tabletop, as if studying notes written there. 

Suddenly a horrible feeling grabs at her throat, and she rushes back up to her room, seizing the magic mirror from where she’d wrapped it in her travelling cloak. She thinks of the Beast, his solitariness, his barbed smile, the way her name sounded when his tongue wrapped around it. The mirror ripples. Her heart is in her mouth. An image comes into focus: it is the Beast’s room, a tangle of jewelled colours and instruments. On the rug books are scattered, and inside them, as if in a magic circle, lies the Beast, his body slumped unnaturally. His steel gray fur appears to be rusting. His own jewelled dagger lies beside him, the blade dripping with - blood. She can’t will it to make sense. She can’t take apart the pieces that were put together to make this picture. 

Back down the stairs she goes, the mirror still clenched tightly in her hand. Her father is in the same position, but his eyes are closed. 

“Listen to me, this is important: last night at dinner, describe what you looked like.” 

He looks up, frowning. “Clara, I don’t - “ 

“Tell me!” 

“I was sitting here,” he says, running his fingers across the rough wood, “A single candle as my only friend. I was eating - “ 

But Clara is already gone in a swirl of cloak and hurry. 

“Clara!” Her father cries out, just as the front door bangs closed.


	9. Chapter 9

In the cool outside air she can put together what’s happened; her father, his desperation driving him to the extreme, calling on the people of the village to hunt down the Beast as though he is a rabid dog in the forest. None of them understand, scared by the unknown, but she knows. She knows the Beast, and he is not the monster they’ve all assumed he is. He is less of a monster than most of them, stabbing him in the back with his own knife. If only she’d stayed with him. 

The way through the forest seems much longer now, despite the morning sunlight and the trampled snow where the mob of villagers has stomped. 

She prays as she never has before that the Beast is still alive, that there is hope. Just as she pieced together the Beast’s fate, she is similarly coming to realise her own. And she doesn’t want it to end this way. She won’t let it. 

She hears yelling, jeers ahead of her, tangled strings of voices, and she ducks behind some thick trees away from the path, her eyes watching. It’s the villagers. They return, triumphant, pitchforks and extinguished torches clutched proudly in their hands like victory trophies. Her body begins to shake when she notices that one of them even has a clump of gray hair protruding from his fist. _They are the animals in this situation_ , she thinks, letting their voices fade before leaving her hiding place, running faster than ever now. She must get to him.

Then there it is, the castle, hiding behind the trees, and she stumbles and falls in her hurry, having to push herself up, her arms soaked to her elbows in the snow. But she hardly notices. The great doors stand ajar, letting Winter’s icy breath into the hall. She doesn’t even let herself stop to close them. There is no point if there is no one left to live in the castle. 

Up the stairs, heart pounding, until she reaches the Beast’s bedroom. He is lying in the same position as she first saw through the mirror an hour ago. She falls to sit beside him, her hands in his fur. 

“Wake up, please wake up!” She cries, shaking him. “You won’t die, not today!” She is about to give in to sobbing into his fur when she feels him stir slightly beneath her hands, and a slow, quiet moan draws itself out of him. 

“You’re ok!” She lifts his head up and into her lap. His eyes are dull, and blood trickles from his mouth. But it does not coat his fangs as if he plunged them into somebody; this is from a pain inside his body. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault,” she says, shaking her head, holding her tears back. “But you’re going to be ok.” 

“Clara…” his voice is faint. “I don’t think I am.” 

“Don’t say that, of course you are!” 

“What is there left for me? A lonely castle, a world that despises me? Time was already running out for me. My day is coming soon whether I live now or not.” He coughs roughly.

“What do you mean?” 

“I was cursed...until the last petal fell. There is only one left. Only one shred of hope, hanging by a string. It will fall before the seasons change.” His voice is quieter now, and she has to lean close to hear. 

“Is there no way to stop it? All curses have loopholes, I know, I’ve read all about them.” She is beginning to blabber now, but she cuts herself off before she lists all the examples she’s seen in books, all the happy endings she’s read.

“An impossible loophole.” 

“But there is something! What is it?” Any small hope will keep the tears away. 

He shakes his head slightly, but the slight effort seems to drain away his strength. He doesn’t reply, focusing on breathing. She lays her hand on his chest, shaking her head for him. When he finally speaks, it isn’t about the curse or the loophole: 

“Clara...every night when I asked you to dinner...that was never - never what I meant. I wanted...to ask for your hand...for you...love…” He takes one, last, shuddering breath.

She just sits there for a moment in disbelief. Then anger sinks its claws into her, and she hits his chest, screaming, “No, no!” until her voice is gone and the tears take over, flooding down her face, and she presses his face against him, feeling his warmth fading, and whispers, softly, so only she can hear, because this is the first time she’s realised it: “I love you.” She can’t bear it any longer, to feel his body growing cold as the minutes tick by on the metronome, and she turns away, hands covering her face, as if that can make it all go away. 

But behind her back, miracles and happy endings are working their magic. The tear that carried Clara’s love for the Beast and stained his fur, now melts away the disguise that he’s worn for so many years, slowly, like the way she fell in love with him. The curse is finally lifted, and one more chance is granted to the Man. 

“Clara.” 

She is hallucinating, imagining things, the grief playing with her mind. That is not his voice anyway, but a smoother version of its roughness. It’s just a trick. Then she feels a touch on her shoulder. She doesn’t breathe, looking at it out of the corner of her eye. A hand rests there, a human hand. _Oh god_ , she thinks, breath catching in her throat, _I’m going mad!_

“Clara,” the voice repeats, “Look at me.” 

Next this voice in her head will be asking her to murder someone. But how can she not look, after such a demand, a demand that her own brain has fabricated? Does it just want to torture her, begging her to look at her love’s fallen body once more? 

She turns - and has to suppress a scream, her hand pressed to her mouth. The Beast’s body has gone. But in his place is no fairytale Prince Charming, but an old man, wrinkles pressed into his face. 

“What did you do with him? Who are you?” She implores. But before he can speak her own questions are answered - it’s all in his eyes, those rainy gray eyes. “Oh,” is all she can say, her hands falling into her lap. 

He frowns and turns away from her. “All that, for nothing!” He stands, crossing the room, pressing his hand against the window. “I should have known you wouldn’t love me like this - it’s been too long. I’ve spent too many years without hope. The last time I was in this body, I was young - now I’ve aged years in only seconds.” It’s almost as if he’s talking to himself. Slowly, Clara gets to her feet as well. “This isn’t me, I’m not this old man!” He scratches at the air angrily, as if trying to shed this foreign skin of his. 

It’s her turn to place her hand on his shoulder. 

“I loved you when you were a beast. Do you really think I care about appearances? No, you’re not the handsome prince every shallow village girl dreams of. But that was never the man I wanted. All I want is a man who’s mature, who I feel natural with. And that’s you. I love you.”

He turns slowly, placing his hand on top of hers. “Do you really?” 

She nods. 

“Oh, Clara!” And suddenly he’s thrown his arms around her, and he’s right, it’s not with the carefulness of an old man but with the madness of a young man in love. 

They hold each other until the sun is at its highest point in the sky. Then he tells her his story: an arrogant young prince who thinks he’s a god because of the power suddenly placed on his shoulders, refusing to let a muddy beggar woman into his pristine castle, cursed to live as a monstrous Beast until he finds true love or the last petal on the enchanted rose she dooms him with falls. He tells her too how it was him who left the trays of breakfast, the plump pink roses. They kiss and her lips are as pink and as soft as those petals.

Their story doesn’t end here, but goes on, a tale of confidence in their true love, and unconventional happily ever afters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and posting positive comments!! happy holidays! ily! <3


End file.
